


meet me in the sunroom

by theroadverytravelled



Series: a house a home [3]
Category: Sky High (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut, they're so into each other and they've built something happy and special!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroadverytravelled/pseuds/theroadverytravelled
Summary: Out the back past the kitchen was what must’ve been some kind of deck jutting out into a modest, overgrown yard. The previous owner had erected glass walls and a glass roof over it all, and when he saw how her eyes lit up at the sun streaming in over the weathered wooden boards that creaked underneath their feet, he knew they didn’t just have to make an offer right then and there but that he’d had to do whatever he could to convince the landlord they were the best candidates to take in as tenants.Warren loving (and wanting) Layla, her impressive powers, her love affair with plants and nature.
Relationships: Warren Peace/Layla Williams
Series: a house a home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803850
Comments: 18
Kudos: 120





	meet me in the sunroom

**Author's Note:**

> quarantine times has truly got me making mad moves. i've not revisited sky high in YEARS & YEARS and then i saw a nathan zed video about it on youtube, and then i went down a warren/layla fic hole and then felt inspired to write my own???? then i thought, well maybe someone else will like it too lol
> 
> un-beta'd, and with very little horticultural knowledge, i just mentioned the plants i liked. don't ask what the climate conditions are that they can all be grown in the same place!! ps the title is inspired by a book called meet me in the moon room by ray vukcevich, and i didn't even finish it i just liked the title

It had taken them forever to find a place with a sunroom. Warren was about ready to make a trip to Home Depot and get certified through the University of YouTube to build them one himself when Layla found this place. It was smallish — one floor, two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms. The kitchen wasn’t tiny but it wasn’t big, and there was a half hearted attempt at a living room. But out the back past the kitchen was what must’ve been some kind of deck jutting out into a modest, overgrown yard. The previous owner had erected glass walls and a glass roof over it all, and when he saw how her eyes lit up at the sun streaming in over the weathered wooden boards that creaked underneath their feet, he knew they didn’t just have to make an offer right then and there but that he’d had to do whatever he could to convince the landlord they were the best candidates to take in as tenants. 

But of course, Layla already had that covered because he was pretty sure Mrs Gupta had fallen for her the second she opened the door to them both and seen Layla beaming with a potted pothos in her hands, the slightly dried out bougainveilla surrounding her front porch perked up and fresh again, blooming and colourful behind them both. 

And so they moved in two weeks later. He worked on making the kitchen functional, she set to work on making a cosy nest out of the living room before she focused her attentions on the sunroom and backyard. Over takeout at the kitchen counter they drew up plans for their bedroom, and turning the second room into a guest bedroom, and while he assembled furniture he’d watch her pushing wheelbarrows of dirt and compost and mulch, kneeling in the dirt and weeds and getting her hands dirty. 

They both knew she could have set the yard to rights in less than an hour, if she was using her powers. But Layla was never much interested in taking shortcuts. And she’d tell him in the bathroom later, as he gently scrubbed away the dirt and grime on her hands, that part of her power was maintaining communion with the earth, with seeds and roots and everything that grew. How could they trust her and come to her aid if she didn’t know them, didn’t learn what made them tick, how far to push, what to pull back, what their potential was? He said nothing as she ranted (Layla would argue she was just _talking_ ) but cast a smile down at her hands before kissing her newly clean knuckles, still smelling of earth and sunshine. 

It’s been more than a year ago now since they’ve moved in, and they’ve really made a home of the place. Warren still treats sentimentality with entirely too much suspicion in Layla’s opinion, but she knows he cares about this space as more than just where he sleeps and keeps his stuff from the little things he doesn’t think she notices. His beaten and loyal wok having pride of place hanging over the backsplash and burners. The stack of thumbed and spine-cracked paperbacks that never leaves one side of their plush couch, so he can pick one up any time. The growing collection of fridge magnets. His habit of rapping his knuckles three times on the small wooden table by the door, the one that holds their keys,  _every time_ he leaves and returns, like a small spell to keep their home safe. 

She built a fire pit in the backyard and surprised him with it, in those first few weeks of them getting the place settled. He hadn’t really noticed since the place was a mess of cut weeds and tools and dirt for the first few days. But she took him outside one evening after another pizza dinner, and in the center of the freshly cleared yard was a small circular pit laid with bricks, already set up with a pile of dried twigs and branches. She’d even found two slightly mismatched lawn chairs, the fabric seats a weathered sage green and butter yellow. 

He clicked his fingers, concentrated on a small flicker of flame under the pile of branches, where he knew Layla would have laid down some kindling. He knew it would catch and grow, needing nothing more than the knowledge of his own powers to know it would be exactly the size and shape he wanted. He sat down in the yellow chair, and pulled Layla down on his lap before she could claim the green one, making her yelp and laugh. He enveloped them both in a comfortable warmth, his arms around her torso, her head on his shoulder as they watched the fire come to life. 

***  


The sunroom overflowed. Warren had gotten used to the sight of a creeping vine or root coming into the kitchen as he made a sandwich, bemusedly watching it yank itself back before Layla yelled out “Sorry!” She kept the yard immaculate, planted seeds for fruit trees that were now young saplings, grew vegetables in neat raised garden beds, carting in thrifted pots she painted to hold flowers and herbs. But the sunroom was her laboratory. It was where she could let her powers be more free when she was at home, away from the wild and expansive natural terrain she preferred. The blooms were heavier in there, more fragrant and lush. Leaves three times the size of their faces, thick stems that reached for the ceiling like raised arms.

Once when Will had visited he’d made a joke about monster plants, the kind in B-grade horror movies that were abnormally huge and ate people. Layla had laughed. Warren had never thought to look at her plants that way, not when he saw her talking and tending to them all everyday with such meticulous attention and curiosity, when he’d felt for himself — under her watchful eye — their fascinating, diverse features. The furry scratchy surface of a leaf, the sturdy ribs that held them together, the fragile texture of a paper thin petal, the craggy surface of a dried seed, the strong grip of a creeper vine, the succulent juiciness of a snapped open stem. 

They were extensions of her, always looking for and to the light, soaking in the nutrients they needed and alchemising that into expressions of beauty and bounty — smells, textures, tastes, sights so rich it was easy to get lost in. There was nothing monstrous about them. Or her. Not even when the intensity of her feelings translated to pricking, dagger-sharp thorns, crushingly thick burly roots, or vines moving as fast as vipers, determinedly driving through every obstacle like a hot knife through butter. He loved her power, her wildness, he saw how bound up it was in how strongly she  _cared,_ how driven she was to nurture and heal things around her, and the humility her powers — nature herself — taught her. 

It was why he’d convinced her, with a significant amount of effort and patience, to one day allow him to crowd her against a small shelf of gardening tools in her sunroom, to let his hands drift downward over her clothes, to let his tongue into her mouth, to  _keep_ letting his tongue into her mouth until her own hands slid into his hair, to let his hands then drift upward under the hem of her gingham dress, to finally let him undress them both, to allow him to lower them onto a chair he’d set down earlier in the day, pushing her knees apart to straddle his thighs, to let down her hair as she sank down into him, her mouth hanging slightly open, to let him keep her there amidst all her plants and under  _his_ watchful gaze this time. 

He lets her set the pace, biting his lip against the feeling of slick drag in and out of her as she rocks her hips, hands clutching at his shoulders for purchase. He cups a full breast in one hand, rubbing his thumb over her nipple just to see her shiver and tip her head back before she trains her eyes back on him, her stare half clouded but filled with heat. 

“Warren…” She whimpers, a note of pleading in her voice as she pulls his free hand to her stomach, pushing down. He complies by ghosting his thumb over her clit, starting a slow careful rhythm, far enough from the thing she wants but exactly what he needs. He can smell the perfumes in the air growing stronger, sees the rosebush in the corner opening its swelling blooms, petals of peach and pink together. The glass walls are covered by the various plants, but the roof over them opens them up to the sky, letting in the light of tonight’s half moon. 

“Sweetheart.” His breath catches at the term of endearment, still, after all this time. It pulls his attention away from the single vine creeping and thickening across the glass ceiling. She’s smiling at him having caught him distracted, but there’s also a tension in her face and he can feel her trying to angle herself for more pressure from his fingers. Her back is arched, displaying an expanse of freckled pale skin he wants to lick up like cream. “Sweetheart, please.” 

“I wanna take my time with you,” He replies, voice gentle and low. Behind him he can hear and feel the increasing rustle of leaves. 

“Well if you wanted that, you should have laid me out on the floor and eaten me out. You always take your own sweet time when you do that.” She snaps, her movements stopping and a frown marring her features. It nearly shocks him into laughing but he manages to bite it back, although he’s not sure how well he’s tamed his face judging by how annoyed she’s starting to look. 

He strokes her face in apology, brings her lips to his for a long, deep kiss. She’s not wrong, but there’s so much dirt in here he wasn’t sure how hygienic that would be although he supposes they could’ve switched positions with her sitting on the chair and him on his knees on the floor. Maybe next time. She melts into the kiss, her palms steady and cool on his chest and she starts moving her hips again, lifting herself nearly all the way up with just his cockhead inside her and then sinking back down with a muffled groan. He can’t tell whose groan that was actually, the change of pace knocks the breath out of him, returns his focus to the urgency of his own need. 

It drives his hands to her hips to help her move. His brain races to catalogue everything. The ocotillo going from spiky green to blooming dark red all over. The vine on the ceiling sprouting new leafy tendrils that gently dip down above them, one even brushing against Layla’s shoulder. He smells jasmine, sweet and fragrant. The sounds of their coupling — skin hitting skin, Layla’s little gasps and bitten off moans, his own rumbling groans — fill his ears. He leans closer to latch his mouth to the rosy puckered bud of her other nipple, his other hand stroking her clit in earnest now, pressure not too hard but what he knows she likes. 

She lifts his head from her chest so she can give him a bruising, needy kiss before separating from him, her every effort focused on bouncing in his lap, keeping the pace, his hand on her clit, his body under her. She’s a sight. Her auburn curls spread out around the soft curves of her face, the sheen of sweat over her chest giving her even more of a glow. Behind her, her plants vibrating with life, growth and blooming, everything like overripened fruit, the air thick with smells and humidity. 

“Let go, Layla,” His voice is ragged at the edges, his breath labored. “Let go for me.” 

Her movements grow erratic, a trembling in her body seemingly surfacing from the deep and then he feels her fluttering around him, new slickness where they’re joined and an interrupted cry she muffles in his shoulder. It’s like a wind picks up in the sunroom, petals and leaves swirling around them as even more leaves, flowers and fruits bloom and burst open around them. He presses a quick kiss to her temple before thrusting his hips up into her wet, tight warmth, drunk already on sensation and stimulation, his skin too tight on his body. Soft sighs leave her mouth, and before too long Warren feels everything uncoil within him, eyelids crashing down as he rides the soaring high of coming apart inside, underneath, around the woman he loves. 

Minutes, maybe hours later, when he opens his eyes, the sunroom is darker than it was. When he looks up he sees the extended branches and leaves and vines of Layla’s plants have all but obscured the lemon slice moon from before, covering the ceiling. She laughs in his ear, a little loopy, looking up at the same thing. The canopy retreats slowly, moonlight filtering back in. She lifts herself up a bit shakily to detach from him, her movements slow. She doesn’t leave his lap, and he takes the opportunity to kiss a trail across her collarbones. 

Layla’s a little distracted though, and not by him. He can feel her reaching for something behind him. When he turns slightly, he sees her fingers gently holding the edge of a large leaf. 

“What is it?” 

“These plants have gone through about ten times their usual cycles in about ten minutes. And they all have different cycle lengths. I’m just wondering about the stress that might have put on them.” 

There’s a strong hint of the concerned botanist in her voice, the one she uses when she talks to students in national parks about taking care of the wildlife on their hikes and picnics. The one she uses when she teaches horticulture classes at the community college. He can’t bring himself to feel guilty, not when his limbs feel full of honey and fizz. 

“They’re really resilient though, right?” She lets go of the leaf, shaking her head at him but smiling, soft and secretive. “You’re always telling me not to underestimate them.” 

She rolls her eyes at this tactic, a favoured one of his where he turns her words against her in jest. Layla traces her fingers over the planes of his face, drawing over his eyebrows and the slope of his nose, studying him like he’s one of her ficuses. It never fails to make his temperature — already higher than average — ratchet up a few degrees. 

“Why was it you wanted us to be together in here? Didn’t know you were into plants like that.” She bites the inside of her cheek, trying not to giggle, and it’s his turn now to roll his eyes. 

“Hippie, you still don’t realise half of what your power does.” _What your power does to me,_ he doesn’t say. “How beautiful it is. How vibrant. It’s so…alive.” 

Her eyes soften entirely, her tenderness always so close to the surface. Not like him, where you have to dig. And dig. And dig. 

She’s always been good at digging though, Layla. 

“This from the man whose element is fire.” Her voice is wistful, and it’s a familiar joke by now. An old fight they once had all the time. The difference between the two of them — birther, destroyer. Healer, agent of harm. Hero, villain. She never believed in binaries, and she’s taught him the fragility of them over time. He’s seen how she’s looked at fire, remembers the initial shock he felt at the fact he could see the same wonder and respect in her eyes as when she looks at plants, trees, mountains, oceans. 

He kisses her nose. “Well, I guess we’re both beautiful and alive then,” he deadpans. “Lucky us.” 

Layla’s laugh is rich and true. “No, you’re right.” She leans forward, presses her forehead to his, affection clear in her expression. “Lucky us.” 

“Hey,” he breathes out, his voice filling in just the space between their faces. Her wide brown eyes are still on his, open and waiting and patient. “I love you.” 

Her smile is as bright as the sun, and he sees the room burst into fullness and colour one last time before she brings his face to hers for a kiss. 


End file.
